After seven years of marriage, my first husband left in search of greener pastures. (The one he found just happened to have another woman grazing in it.) Despite my initial shock, I was blessed with the joy and comfort of our three children to get me through the rough times. Derek was four years old, Darice was three and Dennae was just two. I was a stay-at-home mom with no income in sight, the house payment was three months behind, and the phone had been shut off. Things did not look good, but I wouldn’t trade a second of those years for all the cash in the world.

Daily life became a juggling act. Should we have water–or heat? Food or power? A car or a house to live in? Just warding off nakedness was a never ending struggle. This dreary beginning, however, turned into a long period of gradual self-growth, increasing happiness, and welcome peace of mind–despite the unrelenting poverty. I found full-time employment in a local bank and then took a higher-paying position with the local school district (where I work to this day), but it still wasn’t enough to make life truly comfortable. So the children and I worked at it.

I am very grateful that I was able to squeak by without ever seeking the assistance of welfare programs. God was extremely good to us. Without His love and guidance, I would have crumbled into my heap of dirty laundry and dissolved into tears. I did that a lot, anyway, but I know His Hand was in everything I touched, every day we lived, every aspect of our lives. He knew what He was doing. (Good thing, too, because I sure didn’t.) I can still remember the prayer I said aloud beside my children’s beds every single night: “Dear God, please bless my three little children and their babies [assorted dolls, stuffed animals and precious animal-like beings they had won at the fair], keep them safe from harm at all times and let them know how much I love them and need them forever and ever……”

Life was good back then, but some days were even better than others. The Christmas season was an especially magical time, as you can well imagine, and the children and I had wonderful Christmas mornings–and not just in the sense that there were gifts to open. There were loving family members with whom to celebrate, delicious food to enjoy, long-standing customs to observe, a healthy dose of Santa magic to delight in and lots of meaningful spiritual tradition to commemorate the occasion. Derek, Darice and Dennae were aware that Christmas was not just about Santa Claus and presents; it was all about the birth of Jesus Christ and the salvation of the entire world for all eternity. They knew, but they still believed in Santa. And that was okay.

With all my other responsibilities, by the time Christmas Eve rolled around, I was bushed. But the hard part still loomed before me. Somehow, before 5:00 a.m. the following morning, I had to unearth each carefully hidden gift, drag them downstairs undetected, assemble, sort, wrap and label each one of them. I had a simple rule of thumb: if it was wrapped, it was from Mommy; if it was unwrapped, Santa had brought it. That was the rule. Hard and fast. No two ways about it.

I started out with the best of intentions. Experience had taught me to color-code the children’s gifts so I would know, without looking at the tag, which gift belonged to which child come Christmas morning. I wrapped the gifts for Dennae, my youngest, in the most juvenile wrapping paper–often splashed with big pictures of Santa or reindeer. Derricks paper was slightly more sophisticated, perhaps a Christmas tree or angel scene, and Derek’s was the most masculine–bold green and red stripes, for example. Keep in mind I didn’t have a lot of money to throw around on wrapping paper, so finding a thrifty three-pack with the right combination of themes was quite a challenge. But I was up to it. After all, I was Mom and this was Christmas and my kids were counting on me.

Armed with three rolls of paper, a big bag of the cheapest multicolored stick-on bows I could find, scotch tape, scissors, assorted gift tags, a pen and a mug of hot chocolate, I plopped myself down in the middle of the living room floor. I was ready. Each of the children’s gifts had been hidden in grocery sacks or black plastic garbage bags. To anyone peeking in the window, it would appear I was sitting in the middle of a landfill. I leaned over, selected a gift from one of the bags and began to wrap. Slowly. Carefully. Meticulously. The first ones were beautiful. The wrapping paper was cut with precision, they were taped neatly and evenly, and each gift was topped with a color-coordinated bow (placed carefully on the package so as to yield the greatest aesthetic impact). Following the wrapping of each gift, which typically took about ten minutes, I would search out just the right name tag for that particular present and that particular child (you know, juvenile, slightly more sophisticated or masculine), pick up my pen, and compose a beautiful sentiment.

“To Derek, my dear, super-duper son and oldest child, with love and hugs for a very, Merry Christmas, Mommy.”

“To Darice, my sweet daughter, with lots of huggies and kissies. Merry, Merry Christmas, honey bun. Mommy.”

To my baby, Dennae, without whom the sun would never rise. With love and smackaroonies, babykins. Santa says hello! Love you, punkinhead. Mommy.”

About three gifts into the process, I began to reevaluate my procedures. It didn’t take long to realize I had bought an awful lot (albeit inexpensive) gifts and I would be there until New Year’s Eve if I didn’t change my ways.

Needless to say, I changed. By the end of the night (which was about 3:00

a. m., by the way), my methods began to relax–imperceptibly, at first. It wasn’t long, however, before I restructured completely. Four hours later, my method had been reduced to grabbing the roll of paper, ripping off a piece with my teeth, slinging it around the gift, slapping on a piece of tape, and skipping the bow entirely. Gift tags were history. Derek, Darice and Dennae became D-1, D-2, and D-3 and love, Mom deteriorated into nothing more than a scrawled M. Both scribblings were placed directly on the wrapping paper–any place I could find a light spot. (Santa’s beard was a popular site.) Frankly, I just didn’t give a rip anymore. The closer it grew toward morning, the more gifts Santa was credited with bringing. If it looked like it was going to be difficult to wrap (or if I had to move from the cross-legged position in which I had become immobilized), I willingly gave Santa the credit.

Paralyzing pain and all, though, I wouldn’t trade one aching second of that time. The look of wonder on their glowing faces the next morning made it all worthwhile. Their excited cries and earnest hugs and sloppy kisses proved to me that it didn’t matter if the gifts were department store-expensive or dimestore-cheap, the real name brand item or a knockoff version, wrapped in gold foil or stuffed in a shoe box. The words I love you, Mommy! And I knew Santa would remember! Can make up for an awful lot of blood, sweat and tears. Every last bit, in fact.

One of the greatest compliments I ever received was a remark that Darice (you know, the slightly more sophisticated one) made to me a few months ago when we were discussing her childhood.

“You know, Mom,” she said, “Back then, I never knew we were poor.” That’s because we weren’t.

Copyright © 2000 by Deborah Dee Simmons, All Rights Reserved

Deborah Dee Simmons dsimmons@remc8.k12.mi.us